Later, when Kirk quizzes Scotty about who started the .ght, Scotty reports exactly what the Klingon called Kirk, "A swaggering, tin-plated, over-bearing dictator with delusions of G.o.dhood." Gene liked this so much he suggested we strengthen it-both in the .ght scene and in Scotty's report to Kirk later on. "Get some fun out of this," he wrote. "Like every man's ent.i.tled to his own opinion, joke being he didn't get mad when Kirk was insulted, but he .ipped when the ship was."

Elsewhere, he noted a shortcut I had taken between two topics, a blatant attempt to change the subject in mid-scene. While Kirk was asking about injuries from the .ght, McCoy is complaining about fuzzies. Gene pounced on it with a simple: "h.e.l.l of a place to start talking about fuzzies." I threw out the rest of that scene.

A couple of other scenes were crossed out too, with the simple notation: "Save money!" (Extra shots of the transporter room, things like that.) All of these, however, were little things; they could easily be rewritten. Of more importance was a serious .aw in the structure of the script itself: it lacked unity. We were telling the fuzzy joke all right, but we weren't tying it in with the d.a.m.n Klingons. And this was particularly obvious in the weakness of the ending.

In this .rst draft, it was Cyrano who .ngered Darvin as the spy. This was a little contrived-h.e.l.l, it was a lot contrived. It was very, very bad. After all, on a s.p.a.ce station, they should have run into each other a lot earlier.

No, we needed something else...something to punch it up, some kind of impact, something to bring this all together and make the ending twice as exciting...

And as Gene was saying this to me, a thought was growing in my mind...

"Let's try this," I said excitedly. The thought was still taking shape even as I was talking, an incredible Ah ha!! of an idea- "It's trite, it's shtick, it's hokey, it's been done before," I said, jumping up and down with enthusiasm anyway. "But the fuzzies are allergic to Klingons. They like Earthmen, but they spit and hiss at Klingons. We see it .rst in the bar-then later on with Darvin; that's how we recognize him as a disguised Klingon!"

Gene looked at me. "You're right," he said. "It is trite. It is shtick. It is hokey. And it has been done before." Pause. A smile spread across his face. "But we'll do it."

From that moment, the basic idea was complete.

Oh, there was still a lot of work to be done, but now I knew the story I was telling. All of it. There weren't any holes any more.

Just one or two little things...

For instance, the Enterprise had a new regular character, a fellow named Chekov- Back in '66, when STAR TREK was .rst presented, one of its most important aspects was the multinational character of its crew. Scotty was obviously a Scot, Dr. McCoy was a deep southerner, Uhura was not only African, but her name translates into "freedom" in Swahili. Mr. Sulu, of course, was oriental, although his exact ancestry was never pinpointed. In the Star Trek Guide, he was identi.ed as "j.a.panese in character." Throughout the .rst and second seasons, we continually met additional characters such as Reilly, an Irishman, and Kyle, an Englishman. By implication, other nationalities were represented as well.*

Not only other nationalities, but other races as well. Mr. Spock was half-Vulcan, but the Star Trek Guide suggested that members of other alien species might also appear as Enterprise crew members, a possibility that was unfortunately never explored.

However, one nationality had been overlooked-and Gene Roddenberry himself later admitted that this was an error.

It took a pointed editorial in no less than Pravda, the Soviet newspaper, to bring home the fact that there was no Russian aboard the Enterprise. After all, throughout most of the sixties, the Soviet Union had been putting men into s.p.a.ce with all the regularity of the Manhattan cross town shuttle. And certainly, the Soviet Union was going to continue to be important in the future development and history of s.p.a.ce travel. They felt-and justi.ably so-that they had been slighted.

One of the underlying themes of the show was international cooperation. Not having a Russian aboard belied the "united" in "United Systems Starship."*

So Ensign Chekov was created.

He was to be young-Gene wanted a character for younger viewers to identify with, something I had been thinking about too. Smith-who-became-Doggerty could just as easily be Chekov. Had I known about Chekov sooner, he would have been.

In one sense, though, the joke was on the Russians.

Every STAR TREK character had to have one or two identifying characteristics, a handle with which the writers could approach them. For Mr. Spock, it was his devotion to logic and his pride in his Vulcan ancestry; for Dr. McCoy, it was his down-home approach to medicine: "I'm a doctor, not a fortune-teller." Mr. Sulu was a botanist as well as a skilled swordsman, and Mr. Scott (as pointed out in the Guide) was known to consider his engine room the highest form of relaxation known to man. Nurse Chapel had an unrequited crush on Spock and Lieutenant Uhura had a beautiful singing voice as well as being a generally s.e.xy woman. Captain Kirk-well, he was too busy being captain; besides, William Shatner had made the character too much a part of himself for him to be approached otherwise.

For Mr. Chekov, though, it was the Russian Joke. It worked like this: SPOCK.

Mr. Chekov, hand me the atom-emulsi.er.

CHEKOV.

Ah, yes. The atom-emulsi.er. It was invented by Ivan the Terrible.

Or: KIRK.

This planet is a paradise.

CHEKOV.

Yes. It's almost as nice as Moscow.

And so on.

Whatever you were talking about, the Russians had done it .rst, and better.

Pravda wanted a Russian on the Enterprise?

Okay-but he was going to be .ercely Russian: SCOTTY.

Are you still drinking that soda pop, lad? When are you going to switch to something civilized, like Scotch?

CHEKOV.

Vodka is civilized. In Moscow, they wouldn't drink anything else.*

The actor they hired to play Ensign Chekov was Walter Koenig. He .t into the STAR TREK ensemble as easily as if he'd been there from the start.

I'd been around the set for some time before I met him. Not all the cast members were on the set every day, just the days they were needed. Thus, it was possible to go for several days without seeing one of the stars, or even a couple weeks if you wanted to meet all of the regulars.

Chekov was the only one I hadn't met yet. Oh, there was this fellow on the set during the .lming of "The Apple," always smiling, kind of a Beatle-ish haircut, and in an ensign uniform, but I hadn't a.s.sociated him with the still-phantom Chekov. He smiled at me in pa.s.sing and I smiled back, and both of us probably wondered who the other was.

This went on for several days-on a soundstage that's longer than real-time-with me too polite to speak until I was spoken to, and Walter not sure whether I was just a visitor or somebody he should get to know; at that time, he was still being hired on a show-by-show basis.

For some reason, actors-the ones who are good enough to get paid for it-scare me. If DeForest Kelley hadn't introduced us, I'd probably still be waiting to meet Walter Koenig.

All I remember was that I mumbled something polite and kicked myself for not realizing before. Meanwhile, De was telling Walter that I was writing one of the upcoming scripts. That's when I found out that actors are afraid of writers too.

I mean, think about it. Suppose I decided there wasn't room for Chekov in my story-that made me one of the people who determined whether or not he was going to work.

Thank G.o.d the crew of the Enterprise wasn't being paid by the spoken word. I would have felt guilty every line I cut.

Fortunately, though, most of those kind of heavy decisions are made by the front of.ce, meaning the producers and the directors. Thus, it was possible for the cast and the writers to get along fairly well.

I was one of the few writers who was concerned enough about the show to want to spend so much time immersed in it. I didn't realize it, but the cast was .attered by that. Most TV writers just don't take that kind of interest in a show; they're just disembodied names on the credits. For a writer to show such an active interest means that the series is more to him than just a script a.s.signment and a paycheck.

In some respects, writers are the stepchildren of the in-dustry. They are not really considered a part of the show or the production team. In fact, there are some series where the writers are not even allowed on the set. Fortunately, STAR TREK was more progressive.

Oddly enough, the only other writers who made a point of visiting the STAR TREK set were also science .ction writers-Harlan Ellison, Theodore Sturgeon, Norman Spinrad and Robert Bloch. It wasn't enough that these men had done scripts for the show, they had to come by and look at the .ashing lights and pretty girls too. There's something about science .ction that requires an intense involvement from the writer as well as the audience. It speaks well of the .eld that science .ction writers are so concerned about their stories, regardless of the medium in which they are presented. STAR TREK's best episodes were written by people who understood both science .ction and television.

I got a little bit of ego-boo* out of it too.

There were almost always fans on the set. Friends, or friends of friends. People who knew somebody, or had written in and asked if they could puh-lease visit the set. Tourists from all over the country made the Desilu lot one of their stops in California-this despite the fact that it was Universal that was selling studio tours.

Shortly after Walter and I had been introduced and were standing around trying to think of something to say to each other, a couple of the show's fans, two young men, about six-teen or seventeen, came up. They weren't quite sure who Walter was, but anybody in a Star.eet uniform, even a stand-in, was someone worth talking to. When they found out he was going to be a semi-regular on the show, alternating appearances with Mr. Sulu-the budget couldn't afford both of them in the same episode*-they were doubly excited. They were talking to a star.

I politely faded away. This was Walter's moment.

Uh-uh, not Walter. He dragged me back in: "And this is one of our writers. He's working on a script now."

"Oh, wow! Oh, wow!" Apparently, Walter hadn't realized that to a science .ction fan, writers are the very highest in the pantheon of possible G.o.ds. And these were typical, immerse-yourself-in-all-the-memorabilia, rabid-type fans.

The bigger of the two gushed at me, "Oh, wow! Can I shake your hand? I want to compliment you-you guys who write this show are geniuses!!" Etc., etc.

Frankly, I was embarra.s.sed. Walter hadn't seen one word of what I had written, neither had anybody else outside of Gene c.o.o.n, Bob Justman, and Dorothy Fontana, the story editor. The episode I was working on might not even get .lmed, it was still possible to shelve the story if it didn't work out, yet these two young fanatics were trying to praise me for something they hadn't seen.

And I tried to tell them that. They were wrong to .atter me without reason-and they were wrong to give me credit for other people's work.

But no, they wouldn't listen. They wanted to know that they were talking to one of the "special dreamers." Therefore, I was nominated. Just as I had spent my youth looking up at people like Ted Sturgeon and Isaac Asimov, so were these two teenagers looking up at me. It was an odd sensation.

"Look," I said. "Why don't you wait until after my script is telecast? Then you can write me a letter and tell me what you thought of it. But it's a mistake to compliment me until then."

"Look," said the fan. "This is our favorite TV show. It's always great. Just to be hired to work on a STAR TREK story means that you must have a lot of imagination. Let me compliment you for that."

"Well... all right." It was the last modest thing I said for three years.

Suddenly, these two vacationing school kids had shown me just how far I had come in the past year. I was no longer on the outside, nose pressed .at against the window, tongue hanging out-now I was part of the magic myself. A small part yes, but a part nonetheless and the show's fans would seek me out because of that part. As far as the public was concerned, I was now a part of the STAR TREK team. Like I said, it was a very odd sensation. But very pleasant.

Walter must have been feeling the same thing. By this time, he had been part of quite a few episodes, but none of them would be on the air yet for several months. There were fans visiting the set every day now and he was always friendly to them, but he must have been uncomfortable at being treated like a star before he felt he had earned that privilege.

Walter had been hired around April or May. The character of Chekov was starting to take shape on paper, and it was time to start looking around for an actor to play him. Of course, when the word went out that one of television's hottest new series was looking for a new "regular," enough prospective Chekovs showed up at the studio to crew three new starships.

Winnowing them down was a brutal process. In Hollywood's pre-television days, the goal of every young actor was to land the lead in a movie. After a few movies, he might begin to be thought of as an up-and-coming actor. Television changed all that-now the Promised Land meant being a regular character on a continuing series. It meant you worked regularly and you were a star within six months. You'd be touching more people in a year than you might hope to do in a lifetime of movies. There were a lot of fellows who wanted to be Chekov.

They besieged every secretary in the building. Gene c.o.o.n's secretary, Ande, reported that nearly all of them came in nervous and asking questions like, "What are they looking for? What can you tell me that will help me? What should I do to get on their good side? Is there a piece of spinach hanging from my teeth?"

Ande, who is as near to the perfect secretary as I've ever met, told them nothing.*

When Walter was interviewed, they made him read a scene from "Catspaw," an episode where the Enterprise is menaced by a sorcerer and his familiar. (The episode was written by Robert Bloch.) They wanted the prospective crewman to read a sample of dialogue consisting of: "Captain! Captain! The ship is burning up!" First serious, then funny. They only had that one script, but they needed to see if Walter could handle a wide variety of material.

While Roddenberry, c.o.o.n, and others who were party to this decision were debating the merits of the various actors, Walter was sent with Fred Phillips, the make-up man, over to Max Factor's in Hollywood. There, Walter tried on several wigs (including a blond one). They took several of them back to the studio and Walter modeled them for the producers.

He was asked to wait outside again, while they spoke to another actor. n.o.body told him anything.

After a while, they sent him over to the costume department so Bill Theiss could measure him. Finally, in frustration, Walter asked, "Listen, when do I .nd out if I get the part or not?"

"Huh?" said Bill Theiss. "Don't you know? You've already got it." And that's how Walter Koenig found out he was going to play Ensign Chekov.

As for the wig, that was used only once, in the episode, "Who Mourns for Adonis?" After that, Walter's own hair was long enough so that the wig was no longer needed.

That episode also provided one of the funniest shots for the goodie reel. Michael Forest, the actor who played the Greek G.o.d, Adonis, apparently felt that his costume was a bit fey. So he pranced up to his throne, daintily rearranged his skirt as he sat down, carefully crossed his legs and blew a kiss to the camera.

But of course, that kind of clowning went on all the time. In the episode, "Mirror, Mirror," there is a shot where William Shatner, DeForest Kelley, James Doohan and Nich.e.l.le Nichols move carefully down an Enterprise corridor. What the home viewer didn't see was that immediately after, they formed a conga line and came choo-chooing back across the set.

Ah, those long summer afternoons. After a while, the heat gets to you.

I had a script to write.

Actually, rewrite.

Normally, a writer is expected to take two or three weeks per draft. I didn't know any better. I did it in one.

And at that, I thought I was taking too long. (Well, I was well motivated.) I averaged two scenes-about three or four pages each-per day, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. I needed sixty pages, one for each minute of .lm. (I still didn't realize my 12-pitch s.p.a.cing was throwing that measurement off, but I'd learn soon enough.) Working directly from my .rst draft and Gene's notes, I found that I had just enough emotional energy per bout at the typewriter to do one complete "motivational unit" at a time. (Scene to the layman.) Its climax was my climax, and I needed to rest for a few hours to recharge my batteries.

So I found excuses to run down to Hollywood and visit the set: I needed to know some obscure detail-uh, the dilithium crystals in the matter-antimatter generators, are they .ve-pointed or six-pointed?

As long as my work was fast, as long as it was good, and as long as I didn't make too much of a nuisance of myself, n.o.body seemed to mind.

On one of these visits, I ended up in Gene c.o.o.n's of.ce.

"David," he said. "You can't call your creatures fuzzies."

"Why not?"

"H. Beam Piper wrote a book called Little Fuzzy," he said.

"I know. I read it. So what? His creatures were nothing like mine."

"Just to be on the safe side, legal department wants us to change the name."

"Okay," I sighed. "I suppose that also rules out furries?"

He gave me a look. "Yes. That also rules out furries.''

I sighed. Loudly. "Okay. I'll think up another name."

That evening, I sat down at my typewriter and starting mak-ing up a bunch of nonsense words.

I typed: s.h.a.gbies Charlies s.h.a.ggies trippies shappies tribbies gollawogs tribbles gollies triblets callahans trippets callies w.i.l.l.i.e.s goonies brazzies goomies trif.es gombahs pif.es coombahs puf.es roonies poo.es And a whole lot of other silly words.

There was no .ash of Ah ha! inspiration. I didn't like any of them.

So I started crossing off the ones I hated the most and the ones that were obviously unusable. I couldn't use "w.i.l.l.i.e.s" because Eric Frank Russell had already written a book called The s.p.a.ce w.i.l.l.i.e.s. I didn't like "trif.es" because that was too reminiscent of John Wyndham's Day of the Trif.ds. (I wonder how he came up with that name?) In fact, I almost crossed off all the words starting with "tri-" but no, there was something about that kind of pre.x that I wanted to keep.

I didn't like "charlies" or "roonies," and "s.h.a.gbies" and "gollawogs" were just a bit too cute. So were "puf.es" and "poo.es." "Callahans" and "callies" were out, and "goonies" and "goomies" didn't make it either.

This process of elimination went on for a couple days. Until all I was left with was "triblets," "tribbles," "tribbies," and "trippies."

"Trippies" sounded like hippies, and "triblets" sounded like triplets with a post-nasal problem. "Tribbies" didn't sound too good either.

Tribbles.

Hmm.

I turned the word over on my tongue. I didn't like it.